


Seabirds

by Lenjamin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Emotional Stuntedness and General Bastardry, Family Issues, First Meetings, Heteronormativity, Internal Conflict, M/M, Slow Burn, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22905388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenjamin/pseuds/Lenjamin
Summary: Peter Lukas has few ties - his god, his family, himself. He does what he must for them because that is what he is expected to do. Elias Bouchard might have different ideas about that, but then again, he wouldn't understand. He's never had a family like Peter's.Or, the Lonely Eyes slowburn you didn't know you needed.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 33
Kudos: 110





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biggest thanks to my beta, whom is my true bro and homie, and to the entire Lonely Eyes discord, who have been nothing but wonderful and wholly supportive of me. Love all of you freaks <3

**1993**

Peter Lukas is a young man. Or at least, he is as young as he has ever felt. He cannot be that young, but time seems to blessedly slip away from him the more years he spends on the open ocean, isolated and alone. His childhood is as distant to him as the shores from which he departs, and the weather never changes where he sails his ship. Years mean nothing to him.

Tucked away in his cabin, there is little light, and the sea is grey around him. He watches absently as his ship passes through the choppier waves that tell him they are nearing land. Other boats start to pass them by, now, and he feels the distinct pins-and-needles sensation that reminds him he is no longer where he wants to be. Signs of life always jar him, at first, and he will spend the next few days _—_ maybe more _—_ wrapped in the thickest blanket of fog he can get away with, able to move through the world without being part of it.

He stirs, lighting his pipe. It wakes him up, and he will be less irritable when he is above deck.

Standing, he exits the cabin and climbs the stairs that will take him out into the clouded London harbor. He isn’t sure if the fog is one he brought with him or if it is coincidence, but it makes his emergence easier. He stands on the bough and watches the city come into view. He is here for business.

Peter Lukas is a young man, and his uncle has not forgotten that fact.

Nathaniel is waiting there for him when the ship docks. Hair the same unremarkable shade as Peter’s and even duller in the muted light, he is unmistakably family, though only in the way a Lukas can tolerate. He says nothing to Peter, barely even looks at him, and when he turns Peter follows. It is how they both prefer it.

They get into an unmarked car that takes them through the London streets, the cabin blissfully quiet compared to the world outside. The hotel it takes them to is on an equally quiet street, though it is in a busy part of London. It is often unexpectedly quiet here.

When they go inside, the concierge hands them each a room key without saying a single word. They depart in opposite directions, and once Peter is in his room, he is again blissfully alone. This is how it always goes. This is the family business.

Peter Lukas is a young man with a very promising future.

He isn’t sure he likes that.


	2. One

The dining room of the hotel is, blissfully and intentionally, empty except for Peter and Nathaniel. Normally, they would be eating separately, but it is a sad fact of running a business that communication is necessary. Breakfast is as good a way as any to get reacquainted with the family you never see.

Peter turns over his cantaloupe with a fork and thinks about the Tundra. He rarely eats real, substantial human food anymore, and is surprised to see that Nathaniel eats like normal. Though, he supposes, being more acquainted with the oversight of things and not directly on the front lines warrants less change.

“First, you will be shown how to access the accounts,” Nathaniel is saying. “You will not be able to use them for your own personal affairs. I still retain control.”

Peter says nothing, as is expected. Nathaniel has not made eye contact with him and has spaced out his few sentences to give them plenty of breathing room. It makes the talking easier. Peter has never quite gotten the hang of this stilted Lukas way of talking. When he speaks, which he rarely does, his thoughts seem to pour out all at once or barely at all. At least he has the doldrum calm of his own lilting tone down. That comes naturally to him.

Nathaniel, however, sounds like chilly stillness, a winter cold snap that kills spring seedlings.

“Are you paying attention?”

“Yes,” Peter says, shaving off the edges of a sigh.

“I will not be able to run things forever. It’s important that you learn now. The finances must keep flowing.”

“I know.”

“And you cannot maintain our philanthropy from a boat.”

“I _know_ ,” Peter says, more forcefully. “But I do an important job already.”

“Someone else will take over when it is time. They’ll find another way.”

Peter doesn’t want that. He despises the idea of someone else getting to be totally, peacefully alone while he sits in the city _—_ or if he’s lucky, somewhere more rural _—_ watching over numbers. If only his siblings had been more inclined to business. Or any of it. Unfortunate that he is the favorite child of his father’s brother. It makes being left alone all the more difficult.

Now they are in the car and traveling again, and Peter can’t give less of a damn where they’re going, but he knows he has to pay attention. This is his duty. This is the price he pays for loving his god, and for not-quite-loving his family.

Outside, it is raining. He misses the sight of rain on the open ocean, and he almost smiles for how Lonely he feels.

Nathaniel’s office is in Chelsea, in an area that is almost certainly not as busy as it should be but isn’t as quiet as Peter likes. If he really has to do this someday, he thinks, he’ll need to move it.

Inside, however, the atmosphere is heady and whisper-soft, and he can think again. There’s a distinct Loneliness to the place, powered by decades of the Lukas family coffers exchanging hands within these four walls. In one corner, there is a secretary desk, but no secretary. Peter doesn’t wonder if they left for better pursuits or if they met a worse end; he doesn’t care.

They spend the day with ledgers and records, billing statements and important paperwork. It is a small space and they grow uncomfortable with it quickly. Nathaniel places things for Peter to look at on top of one desk or another, and they attempt to communicate without language. Peter reads, and reads. He sees many numbers. His head grows foggy and not in a way he’s so keen on. He learns because he needs to, but after a while he’s had enough.

“When are we going to the Magnus Institute?” he asks. It isn’t that he very much wants to, because he absolutely doesn’t. But he doesn’t want to do this either. He’d really rather not have any of it.

Nathaniel sighs. “We’ll not be going to the Institute. The fundraiser is elsewhere. It will be tomorrow night.”

“And why do we fund them, anyway?” Peter glances over several sheets that bear the Institute’s letterhead.

“For a business investment. They remain... allied with our interests. And we gain benefits on occasion.”

“Ah. So they feed us.”

“Not often. However, as a favor, those who would be well-suited to our faith are watched for.” He says this pointedly. Peter knows what it means and ignores it. 

“When can we leave here?” he says. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

They depart in the car again, and it is still drizzling. As they arrive at the hotel, it stops.

* * *

The next day, Peter is allowed to stay in the hotel as preparations for the evening’s activities. It is at least quiet there and he can find a sense of peace, but he remembers that people wander the streets outside, though there is no window in his room to show him these sights.

Honestly, he thinks, this is all shit. He hopes that in a week or so it will all be over, that the business side of things will be taken care of and he can go back to sea. He hopes that if he shows he can dip his toe in, Nathaniel won’t make him talk about the real reason he’s here. At least this time.

Stoically, like he learned how to do growing up, he stores these thoughts away. They are not his place and they cannot hurt him if he doesn’t let them.

Peter hates all these people. He wants to be alone.

Before he realizes the time has passed, it is nearing evening. He dresses awkwardly in the grey suit Nathaniel has acquired for him, not comfortable with such stiff formality, though that is all he ever shows to strangers. He looks at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize who he sees. He wonders if this is how he will look on his wedding day.

After brief consideration, he picks up his captain’s hat and dons it back on his head. He also grabs his coat, shabby and worn and Lonely-woven, and pulls it on. He will need it.

Nathaniel says nothing when he sees Peter, but Peter can feel the cold disapproval emanating from him. This is how Lukases always feel: cold, distant, scrutinizing. Peter ignores it easily. If it is so much of a problem, Nathaniel can choose the confrontation they both desperately hate.

The banquet hall is just a few blocks from Nathaniel’s office, and likely close to the Institute, Peter guesses. He appreciates the courtesy of not being in the Eye’s stronghold and having to add another layer of exposure to this miserable affair. Still, he knows, Beholding will be watching.

They walk up to the building. The attendant shows them inside, Peter in his place just behind Nathaniel, ever so slightly taller but still feeling small. He braces himself for the noise.

It isn’t as if Peter doesn’t go in crowds often. The ports where he must find new souls to sacrifice are busy and lively, as they must be. It makes it easier to find a desperate fearful face amongst a sea of joviality and hubbub. He is used to moving through life. He is not used to being visible, and Nathaniel has brought him for a purpose.

Still, he nods his way through the introductions that Nathaniel can stomach while sober, and when his uncle turns his back and breaks for the bar as detachedly as he can manage, Peter wraps himself in Lonely and becomes invisible.

The fog is a comforting feeling, drowning out the din, and Peter relaxes slightly. He may only have a few moments of this, but for now it is enough. Perhaps he will grab something to drink as well, and maybe the bartender won’t even notice that the two of them are all alone.

Suddenly, and so subtle he almost does not notice it, there is a ripple in his haze _—_ a slight buzz of static whispering across the back of his neck. He turns, scanning the crowd for the disruption, and can’t manage to find anyone looking at him.

Except _—_ no, there, hidden in a corner _—_ there is a woman staring at him, middle-aged, hair pulled into a severe bun. She is small and unremarkable and she is _staring right at him_. Right through his Lonely. Peter makes eye contact with her, and he feels the buzz of Beholding roar down his spine. But that is not what scares him. It is the look she gives him _—_ cold, calculating, unfeeling. Pure logic.

Feeling thoroughly exposed, Peter turns up the collar of his coat and sinks further into the Lonely. Maybe now he really will get that drink...

“Peter.” A hand on his shoulder. The fog dissipates, and Nathaniel stands next to him amongst the hum of the crowd. “Come. There’s someone you need to meet.” His uncle is not angry, Peter sees. He knows that, regardless of his independence, Peter will come when he is called.

“Who is it this time? I’ve met quite a lot of people tonight.”

“Our host.”

Something in Peter’s stomach churns. “Ah.”

“He’s nothing special. A self-absorbed man, but one who understands our goals.” It’s the most courage his uncle would ever offer him.

Peter feels eyes upon him as he walks across the hall, led by one man he does not know to another. He cannot tell if they are Beholding’s or if he is simply a stranger in this place of chatter and subtlety, one who sticks out like a sore thumb. It does not matter. He is not here for himself. He is here for his family. He is here because he has to be.

Peter knows he will meet no one here tonight who will make an impact on him. He knows that for as many people as he will ever meet, and however long he knows them, none will matter. All he has is himself, anyway.


	3. Two

Nathaniel parts through the crowd, and Peter passes several older men, a handful of whom he has already met this evening. These are the bigshots of the Institute, board members and donors that he supposes he now belongs among. A horrible thought, really.

His uncle finds his mark. “Peter. This is the head of the Magnus Institute.”

James Wright is an aging man with a permanent expression of cocaine-fueled confidence. His air is one of someone who frequently indulges himself to excess, and he is relatively tall, though Peter still has a few inches on him. Peter would be utterly dismissive of him if not for the fact that his eyes do not match his face.

Peter extends his hand in greeting. Wright takes it, looking altogether too pleased with himself.

“It’s Peter Lukas, isn’t it?” he drawls, something slimy in his tone. Peter does not like this man’s voice. He doesn’t like his appearance much, either.

“Certainly.” Peter doesn’t let his hand linger for longer than it needs to. “And you’re Mr. Wright.”

“Only if you say so.” He leers at Peter, not letting the double entendre be missed. Mr. Wright, Mr. Right. Haha, very funny. It’s all Peter can do not to roll his eyes.

Despite his best interests, Peter lets his disdain and disgust show openly on his face. Much to his chagrin, however, Wright seems not to be offended—instead, he seems _more_ interested than before. Peter supposes that putting Forsaken on the spot must be something of a fun pastime for ones who serve Beholding. Of course.

Unyielding, Peter says, “Rather forward of you, isn’t it, Mr. Wright? I’m surprised there aren’t more rumors about you floating around, considering.”

Wright snorts, but the glint of intrigue is still there. “Considering _what_ , Mr. Lukas?”

“Oh, _everything_ ,” Peter says, looking him up and down pointedly. “There’s more than one way to get information, isn’t there?”

“Peter,” Nathaniel warns. Wright smiles like a shark.

“Well. You’d best listen to your uncle, I think. Like a _good_ Lukas.”

Rather than starting a good brawl like Wright deserves, Peter fixes him with a glare, one as icy and harsh and isolating as he can muster. He stares into Wright’s eyes, tries to teach Beholding that there are things it cannot see, cannot know, cannot lay claim to, that he will escape it and there is nothing it can do about it. And Wright stares back, with those odd eyes. The eyes that don’t fit the sloppy, careless, incognizant frame of the man in front of him. The eyes that only just reveal that Wright is _enjoying_ this.

Narrowing his eyes, Peter turns and storms off into crowd and fog, pride be damned. He’s not going to be part of one of the Eye’s voyeuristic spectacles. His uncle will likely be angry, but that’s a problem for another hour.

As he does not wander among the crowd, Peter wishes for a good pipe, or a stiff drink. But he lacks the constitution to find someone and ask.

If he were wiser, he would track down his uncle, find him and apologize for his indiscretions. It would make everything easier. A Lukas does not cause conflict, after all. But as he watches the night drag on through his cloud of loneliness, he finds he very much does not want to do so. In fact, he does not want to be part of this at all. He would rather he were home _—_ and thinking of his boat as home, however accidental it may be, angers and frustrates him past the point of return. He stands. He’s going to _take_ that drink if he has to, company be damned.

As he rises from his seat, however, he hears a voice behind him. “I believe you’ll be wanting _this_.”

Peter turns. Behind him is James Wright, holding a vodka tonic. Immediately, he is on guard _—_ and genuinely at a loss, though he does not show it.

Peter glares, and Wright gestures to the glass in an ‘if you don’t want it, I’ll have it’ motion.

“I can get my own drink, thank you very much.”

“But now you don’t have to. And isn’t that nice?”

“I’m not sure.” Peter turns his back to Wright, still where he can see him in his periphery. “So what is this? Some sort of peace offering?”

“I don’t offer peace. I make deals.”

“Not sure what you want from me, then.”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For the foreseeable future.” Wright sips the vodka tonic. “Do you see that young man over there in the green striped tie? I’ll bet you five pounds he’s going to try and chat with the woman at the next table. The dark-haired one.”

“I don’t make bets over petty drama,” Peter says. “And who told you I like to gamble? This is a very transparent hustle, Mr. Wright.”

“If you’re worried I gleaned it from my patron, don’t be. It would be your, ah... friend Simon Fairchild. He thought I could use a _—_ how did he put it? ‘Helping hand.’”

“I don’t know that I would call Simon Fairchild my friend. Then again, I wouldn’t say I have friends, really.” Peter says this matter-of-factly. Which it is. It’s something he’s rather proud of.

“That’s hardly surprising,” Wright scoffs.

They watch the man with the green tie stand up, walk to the next table, and politely tap on the shoulder of a woman with blonde hair _—_ the one sitting next to the dark-haired woman.

“Hmm. Can’t win them all.” Wright pulls out his pocketbook and absentmindedly offers Peter a crisp bank note.

“I don’t want your money.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Lukas, it’s not an insult.”

“I don’t _need_ your money.”

“You can think of it as your _family’s_ money if it makes you feel better.”

“I never even agreed to the bet.”

“Didn’t you?”

Peter snatches the note from Wright’s hand, if only just to shut him up. Then he crumples it into a ball and drops it into the vodka tonic.

Wright blinks, obviously taken aback. “Goodness.”

“Said I didn’t want it.”

“That you did.” A perfect picture of class, Wright sips the tonic once more, the crumpled five-note rapidly sagging at the bottom of the glass.

“Like I said. It’s a very obvious hustle.”

“And what makes you so sure it’s a hustle at all?”

“How does a man of Beholding lose a gamble when he’s holding all the cards?”

“By forfeiting them,” Wright says. He places the empty glass down on a nearby table. “Well, this has been an interesting if not useless conversation, Mr. Lukas. I’ll see myself away now.”

Peter doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t need to. He would agree with Wright that the conversation had been useless, and the man has proven himself annoying anyway.

He watches the wet paper wilt in the bottom of the glass. It is marginally the same color as Wright’s eyes, or at least it’s similar in paleness.

It’s not as though he needs the five-pound note, but he is curious if it would taste much of vodka tonic, or if it would simply be cold and flavorless. For a moment, he is tempted to reach for it anyway. He doesn’t. It would be beneath him.

More than that, he’s fairly certain it’s exactly what Wright would want.

When his uncle finds him again, Nathaniel is calm, but his jaw works. He is nearing his limit for patience and company, Peter sees, and for fussy nephews.

“Sorry about all that, uncle. Everything got to be a bit too much, you understand,” he says, almost cheerful. “But Wright came and spoke with me. We’ve smoothed things over, you see.”

“Yes, I know. He said as much.”

“Ah. Good. So, all is forgiven, then?”

“No.” Nathaniel doesn’t even look at him. “We’re leaving now.”

For half a moment, Peter is reduced to a shadow of the child who cried when his nannies punished him. Then he is an adult again, and he will not let himself be shamed. He won’t.

In the car, and the night is colder than Peter would have expected.

“Peter. We need to talk about why I summoned you here.”

Peter’s heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach. “Do we have to?”

“You know that the family name and bloodline must be kept. You knew this was coming.”

Peter says nothing.

“If you don’t start looking for a wife, there will have to be one chosen for you.”

“Fine,” Peter says. “You put in all the effort. I’ll go back to sea and make some real sacrifices.”

“The partnership will be lonely. Especially with your... _inclinations_. And we will all be served as a result.”

Peter stares out the window. “I’ll be leaving port tomorrow, then.”

Nathaniel doesn’t labor the point. “Don’t forget who gave you the god you worship, Peter.”

And that’s the thing, he thinks, about family faiths. It’s never as much about the faith as it is about the family.

Rain begins to drum on the roof of the car, and Peter hears the beat of a march towards his fate. Whether he wants to or not, he follows it _—_ for his family, for his god. For the way he knows all religions must double down on their believers.

Peter Lukas is a young man. But that means nothing, really. Not for him.


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have finally crawled to the finish line of this chapter. Also, due to complications such as me going on vacation and school being terrible I unfortunately cannot guarantee when the next one will be out, but I'll do my best :)
> 
> I must also once again thank my beta whom I love :3

**1994**

“And so of course I asked her, what did she want? But by that point she was already screaming far too much to answer,” Simon was saying. “She was a lovely young woman, absolutely lovely, but unfortunately very unequipped for the situation at hand. So, what do you think? Green or blue?”

Peter considers. “I like the odds on blue.”

“Blue it is then.”

They’re at the pier, and the sky is far brighter than Peter would like it to be, but he knows it’s just right for Simon. Still, there are wisps of cloud huddling out at sea, and though a considerable throng passes them by he is tucked away where only Simon can see him.

Peripherally, Peter sees Simon walk over to Blue and put a hand on their shoulder, shaking them out of the mild trance of sea-gazing. Confusion lingering in their eyes slowly begins to turn to fear.

Peter’s not here to watch, though. He’s looking for other things.

In a moment, he has vanished into wisps of smoke, floating in the space between boardwalk and barrenness. He flits through the smothered crowd, as intangible as their most futile desires. This is his feeding ground.

The figures lining the pier are still visible, but they have taken on a ghost-like form, imprints of the secret Forsakenness that all of them hold in their hearts. Some shapes cut through the fog, more bodily than the rest. These are the ones most susceptible to him. He will choose one, and they will be lost to the world forever.

He comes to a sudden stop as one of them appears fully in front of him. It’s a small figure—a young boy, though knowing nothing about children Peter couldn’t guess how old. He looks lost, and incredibly scared.

Peter locks eyes with the boy, who stares at him with the fear of strangers that Peter’s own parents never gave him. He smiles kindly, and the boy hesitates.

“Hello there. Are you lost? I can help you.”

“M-my mum,” the boy whimpers. “She left me.”

“That’s awful. I know what it feels like to be left behind.” He steps forward, kneeling down to the boy’s eye level as tears begin to sweep his face. “It always hurts when the people you love abandon you, doesn’t it? I can help make sure you don’t have to worry about that ever again. How about you come with me?”

He extends a hand, and the boy looks at it. He reaches his own hand out.

Suddenly, he looks up, searching for a noise Peter cannot hear. Peter strains. The call is faint, but—

_“Eli!”_

“Mum? Mum!”

Something barrels through the fog, and Peter is back among the crowd again, the blanket of muffled cold vanishing in an instant. The child’s mother wraps her arms around her son and squeezes tightly.

“Elliott, my baby—oh, don’t ever run off like that again, you _scared_ me,” she says, running an anxious hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry, mum, I-I turned around and I didn’t see you anymore...”

“It’s okay. The important thing is that you’re safe.” Her voice trails off as she leads him by the hand, wandering back down the pier. The barest traces of fog vanish from around their shoulders.

Peter watches them go with only mild interest. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has evaded him.

His expression is unreadable as he carries on in a different direction.

Eventually, Peter settles on an older man fishing on the far end of the pier. It is an easy meal and the man will be content at his post for a while, not noticing the silence until it is far too late.

As other fishers around him patiently watch their lines, he stares out over the edge of the pier and far, far into the grey-green-blue of the ocean. There certainly is a reason why Simon enjoys this place, he thinks, contemplating how the horizon crawls on forever and vanishes into nothing. To the common eye, the sea holds no signs of life. It is as lonely as it is vast. Odd, how easy it is for the two of them to find common ground.

Enchanted by its beauty, he barely notices when Simon sidles up next to him. “You were right. Blue Shirt lasted longer. Green never stood a chance, the poor fellow.” The old man follows his gaze. “Admiring how the Titan falls?”

“That’s rather dismissive of her Forsaken depths, don’t you think?”

“You would know better than I, Captain Lukas.” Simon produces a small object from his pocket and hands it to Peter. “Your prize.”

Peter takes it. In his hands is a small antique model plane. The man who made it first started building kits with his father, who was an RAF pilot and loved all manner of aircraft. Putting the little planes together never felt quite the same after his father vanished into the sky without a trace, and it sat on his shelf for years afterwards, a persistent reminder of the family he’d lost. Peter knows all of this from a single touch, years of grief and abandonment settled into the toy’s skin. He also knows from Simon that the plane served as the man’s good luck charm on airline trips.

“Thank you. You’re too generous.” With one finger, he spins its little propeller, smiling in amusement. He casts his glance back out over the ocean and imagines it soaring overhead.

On a whim, he leans over the edge of the pier. Extending one arm, he sends the plane flying, watching the breeze carry it to new heights. It makes it a good distance before circling downward, nosediving into the ocean below with the faintest splash.

Simon looks rather dismayed. “Now what was the point of that?”

“It’ll be far Lonelier at the bottom of the ocean,” Peter says cheerfully. “No one to cherish it.”

“It was a perfectly nice artefact, and you’ve gone and quite literally thrown it away. Shame on you,” Simon says, with absolutely no bitterness in his voice. “Though I suppose you’ve made quite the habit of tossing things overboard, haven’t you?”

Peter furrows his brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m talking about your little performance with our colleague James Wright.”

“Do you remember that? It was ages ago at this point.”

“Time works differently for me, dear boy. Of course you know that. But it’s rather beside the point, given that I’ve seen him just the other day.”

Peter shrugs. “I see no reason for me to care.”

Simon smiles, and Peter doesn’t like the way it looks. “Oh, I’m sure it’s of no concern to you. He did inquire after you, however.”

Peter often has trouble understanding why people do things. A figment of his isolated upbringing, he suspects, and he hasn’t examined it much more than that. But this perplexes Peter beyond the usual sense. “Why would he do that?”

“Don’t you know? I think he likes you.”

Peter makes a face. “All the more reason for me to stay away from him.”

Simon chuckles drolly. “Naturally. You Lukases love being contrarian.”

“What reason could he have to like me? I practically spit in his face.”

“Oh, I suspect that _is_ the reason,” Simon says. “Our James just loves a little drama. I believe he took your jabs as a flirtation of sorts. It must be the _largest_ reaction he’s gotten out of a Lukas in—well, ever.”

Peter shakes his head. “That’s petty. It does nothing for me.” Yet he’s played right into Wright’s favor, Peter thinks. Ironic, given that Peter’s family is what keeps Wright’s precious Institute afloat. He should really be trying to win Peter over.

Or, maybe he is. If that’s the case, he’s doing a horrible job with it.

“Do you really think he was trying to befriend me? Is that why you told him I like gambling?”

“In a sense. Our dear James knows the values of putting himself and his patron first, but he also likes to have a bit of _fun_ where he can. Having a rich and powerful ally to have that fun _with_ only enhances that experience.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you helped him.”

Simon rocks back on his heels. “I like to indulge myself in a bit of fun every once in a while, too. And besides, James Wright has a very big secret. I’m rather surprised your uncle hasn’t told you yet. Not as if he tells you anything important. But I’m curious to see how long it will take you to figure it out.”

“Hm. And if I’m not interested?”

“I could make you interested.”

“I’m not looking for a gamble with James Wright. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay out of his way. And keep him out of mine.”

“I suppose I can’t blame you for that.” Simon stares out at the ocean, watching the hot sun whisk away the last subtle clouds hovering over the water. “Still—he tends to be a remarkably persistent man, James. And I do believe you enjoy fun and games more than you’re willing to admit.”

“Maybe,” Peter says airily. “Not his kind, though. I don’t particularly give a damn about a boring man who eats tabloid news for a living.”

“Then I wish you luck,” Simon says. To the startled horror of the tourists around them, he climbs atop the pier railing and stands as tall as he can with his stature. “Be seeing you.” He turns, and does a remarkably graceful swan dive into the water below, causing shrieks from the crowd. None of them notice that he doesn’t hit the water.

What a strange man, Peter thinks. Would it kill him to avoid being cryptic for once? Also, what does he seemingly know that Peter doesn’t? It’s all very mildly frustrating.

Having gotten what he came for, Peter gathers swaths of fog around him and begins the long walk back down the pier. Never mind that Simon has taken his leave so abruptly—it’s part of their conditions of alliance. No goodbyes. Too sentimental.

The sea glimmers dully as he passes over old boards. Families around him laugh cheerfully, muffled though they are. He looks to the sky and hopes for a bit of rain.

The harbor isn’t a far walk from the pier, and he wanders towards it in silence. It’s a smaller one, not meant for industrial vessels, but no one sees the Tundra unless they’re meant to. And it isn’t as if his crew would complain.

When he arrives at his ship, though, he’s surprised to find someone waiting there for him.

Glassy, covert eyes and an unfeeling face tell him this is an ally, if not a Lukas he doesn’t recognize. They hold nothing but an envelope, which they hand off to Peter before leaving without a word.

His heart sinks as he glances at the innocuous thing, and he considers tossing it into the water and being done with it. But that wouldn’t be very proper of him.

Sighing, he tears open the envelope, where Nathaniel’s handwriting is there waiting for him. The letter reads:

_Peter._

_You are not to leave shore. Your vessel will be left in the care of others and you will come to London. There is work to be done._

_N. L._

Some relief crawls over his shoulders. The words “marriage” or “wife” are nowhere to be seen. Still, not promising.

Briefly, he considers tossing it in the water anyway and disregarding the summons altogether. But what would he do instead? Ignore it and leave? Nathaniel would know he had gotten the letter. There would be terrible consequences.

Peter has been running away from his responsibilities. Now, there’s nowhere he can go where he could be truly alone. Not really. Not without the shadow of his blood looming over him.

Peter climbs aboard his ship. He’s got some things to tell the crew.

* * *

“You will be handling paperwork,” Nathaniel says to him. “And contacting patrons. It will help acquaint you with the financial aspects.”

“Sure.”

“It is exceedingly important that our interests stay in order. Do not be afraid to exert control over those we provide for.”

“Hmm. Sounds like fun.”

That earns him a glare from Nathaniel. He smiles harmlessly.

“Can you handle this one simple task, Peter?”

“I am a ship captain, uncle.”

“You aren’t now.” Nathaniel shuffles his papers. Peter’s smile drops.

“Fair enough,” he says. “What should I take care of first?”

It’s not that this bothers him, really. It’s what he has to do for the family. He knows this. But the seeds of resentment have begun to grow in his mind.

He never liked his uncle much, anyway. He was never polite. Not even at funerals.


End file.
